They say that age is a killer of beauty, that wrinkles, sun-spotted flesh, and white hair is something you should dread.
But truly, I have never seen someone like her carry themselves so beautifully.
I was in a group of four on a weekend getaway in a small mining town tucked away between red rock and ghost tales. I had been eyeing the small shop for some time now, my eyes lingering over the cards dangling behind the glass pane, catching a whiff of incense that lingered on the back of my tongue.
The door was always open, and every time we walked up and down the cracked pavement countless times, my head would crane to the door, roving over every detail I could momentarily catch. A single glance wasn’t nearly as long as I’d want it to be, and neither was the whisper of a citrus scent. I saw dried flowers in bundles, I saw candles and all sorts of oddities that just beckoned a second glance.
I wanted to wander inside, touch and hold every item, breathe in the scent of its comfort and take it back home with me.
Now, I’ve had my fair share of experiences when it comes to any pagan store, bright white lights, shelves full of overpriced crystals and a scent so strong it snuffed out my curiosity as soon as I walked in.
Walking in that store felt nothing like that.
The lights were warm, the scent was mouth-watering, and the lack of felt less overbearing. There were some crystals, a basket of stickers, clothes on wracks and books, but it felt like whoever owned the store truly adored it. Just enough stock for the shop, and the right amount of decoration to tell you a hundred stories about the people in there.
Smoke curdling in the air, yellow dangling lights, a jingle of something just out of ear shot.
Oh, this was perfect.
There wasn’t a single moment where my hands were kept to myself. I had to touch, to savor, and enjoy the feeling of authenticity that the store had. I stalled out my time there as much as I could, hoping that my busy hands could keep the group in there a little longer.
It was wonderful.
The keys had captured my attention.
They were placed around a small altar behind the desk, so I felt a little hesitant to insert myself there. It started with a gradual shuffle of my feet until my right hip clipped the corner of the desk, and if I leaned a little into it, I could see the keys.
Rusted old keys.
I cannot tell you why, call it a coincidence or fate itself, but I had been searching for old keys. Like a snare biting into my leg, the nagging desire for a key had been seated in my chest for weeks now. I had spent hours going to antique stores a few weeks prior, scouring for keys.
And here they were, calling to me like an old friend.
As if she heard my plea, the woman in the store walked towards me, and I was at a loss for words as she asked me about my interest in the keys.
She was absolutely radiant in every way possible. I wish I remembered her name, a title to give her other than compliments, but unfortunately, just that will have to do. She was an older woman with a grace so profound that it poured out from every facet of her like a babbling brook. Her silver hair framed her features like the feathers on angels wings. Her smile told a story of hundred smiles before now, and down to the very thing she wore, she spoke of a deep, soul encompassing comfort. She looked so serene, so at peace with herself, and I found myself aching for that similar comfort. I wondered briefly if she could feel it from me, the lost disposition I have within myself. If I thought about it enough, could she sense that?
Such a foolish thought, but I can’t help it, I’m always wondering if someone can tell that something is off about me.
She was asking about my interest in keys, and if I wanted one.
I said yes.
There was a ritual to the keys, I remember this. To make it my own, it has to be cleansed, and I have to breathe a new thought into it.
A wish.
A want.
A want that could open any door I sought after.
I chose a long rusted key that was dropped into a brass wine glass. Her hands found its way to a bottle, which she tipped and poured generously over my chosen key.
A strange elixir of sorts?
I can’t quite tell you now. Maybe it was some kind of oil, some alcohol based liquid that caught aflame so beautifully.
It didn’t matter, because one moment, it was a still pond in my brass cup, and then the next it had sparked to life with a few snaps of a match.
I’ve always loved watching fire burn, whether it be a candle light or a campfire, something about it seemed to muddle every raving thought I had. I could lose myself to this. And I think I did that day, because I can’t tell you how long I sat there, focusing on a flame. While the world seemed to move around me, I was locked into an embrace I never wanted to part from, the burning warmth of a tender flame. The fire lapped at the water, skating over the surface, curling to the sides of the glass and billowing upwards, reaching for me.
It crackled and spit just a few inches away from my face, dragging its hands over my rusted key, curling around every crevice of the metal as the liquid started to dissipate. I pressed every thought I could into that fire, told it everything I wanted.
Creativity, the ability to write without bounds. I told her that I wanted to make something special, to curate something meaningful with my meaningless hands.
Could I find that, oh crackling flame?
Give me a door, I have the key. Give me direction, I have my answer. Just, help me.
Tell me there’s something in me worth uprooting and giving to the world.
It was some time ago, but I can remember that the flame was tall and bright until the very last moment, where it wilted before my eyes like a dying breath, kissing a final farewell to my key before dropping its hands, and disappearing entirely into a whisper of citrus smoke. I hoped that it meant something, hoped that this could mean that maybe, my fire was bright.
My fire was still there, somewhere in me, this flame was proof of it, yes?
The woman came back to me, drawing my conscious back to the moment.
She said she had seen my flame, and how tall it had burned. We talked as I stood up, the world now coming to full focus.
It was no longer just a moment between me, and what I could also hope it be, a reflection of me as well.
“Your name has power to it, have you considered looking back on your ancestors? There could be some lineage…”
My attention was forced back to our conversation.
No, I hadn’t, and my family doesn’t have any sort of history with Greek gods, but I could perhaps entertain the thought. Turn it around in my mind and draw dreams of some stranger related to me, buried in a time long ago.
Who knows, maybe there is something in me that I’m not aware of. Maybe it’s high time to take an ancestry test.
She told me of a goddess who is seen in keys. She spoke of crossroads, of paths, and if I wanted to, I could seek her out, to which I found myself hesitant.
“I just feel like there’s a block in me, from my past.” I recall saying,”I grew up so set in one way, it’s hard for me to give anything else a chance.”
Worship is something I truly detest. Something about surrendering to something else, being less than, put a bad taste in my mouth. It sounded a little too close to the place I ran away from some time ago.
“I understand, I really do.” The woman had said,”I grew up the same way.”
I don’t think I could’ve hidden the appreciation in my eyes, even if I’d wanted to; it was a relief to have someone understand me that way. My key was wrapped in a cloth and placed in a small bag for me to carry. She gave me her Instagram, told me to reach out to her and we could talk about it.
I have to admit, I didn’t end up doing that.
I was scared, hesitant.
I was a tourist, a passerby, surely I wasn’t important enough for her to remember by the end of the day.
I felt as though my questions would be more of a bother than anything, but even recalling the memory now, I can’t help but wonder if I had swallowed my self-doubt and asked just a question or two, maybe something could have come from that.
Who knows.
But the memory is warm, even thinking of it now. I wish I could remember her name, and thank her for bringing me the brief feeling of solidarity.
I hope that one day, I can carry the natural comfort she carried, that seemingly endless peace and almost guiding comfort she had to her words.
Something to look forward to in the future, I suppose.
The Last Line “I didn’t want to admit it, but Lee was usually right.”
This was supposed to be submitted to a writing contest a while back, but I didn’t finish it on time, and I didn’t end up writing it the way it was originally supposed to be. Regardless, this was a fun writing exercise; I’d love to do more of them and hopefully get them finished by the due date.
Let me know what you think of it! As well as any improvements I could make in the future for other short stories. If I missed any grammatical errors, I apologize. I do try my best to check through everything, but some tiny things do slip by sometimes… That being said, enjoy!
I Didn’t Want To Admit It
I was wrong most times growing up. Wrong about my childish dreams, wrong about how easy life would be when I moved away. Wrong about the company I devoted my time to, and maybe even wrong about the woman I love.
And you know what? I could live with that. Because dreams are just what they say they are, dreams. Companies don’t care about you, and they’ll replace you, because in a world of billions, you don’t mean all that much.
And her?
She’ll come back, I’m sure she will. And if she doesn’t? Well, that’s a future problem for future Arthur. A future that probably won’t happen. She’ll be back, she always comes back.
There are a few things I had to be right about, without a shred of doubt. Arthur McKroy was strong, Arthur McKroy didn’t scare easy, and he damn sure didn’t stutter.
I didn’t want to admit it, in all honest truth.
There was something about saying it, letting it slip out of me that meant I lost to him. I couldn’t, I just couldn’t let him win.
He didn’t deserve that.
Lee was a man against my own heart, a man I cursed under my breath. A disease, a poison I hoped to never swallow.
Lee could have been seen now as a quiet man, and if you didn’t know him, you’d even think he was a humble one too. With his lax stance, weary eyes, and wrinkled features. Old age had marked his once sharp features, but Lee was neither quiet nor humble. Behind the wear and tear of age was the crackling flame of a man in his roaring thirties. A tempest his weary body could not release, but could only let fester deep in the throes of his withering body. Where his strength decayed, his mind remained unnervingly intact. Lee now took to striking with his words, and he’d rolled up his sleeves with the signature crease of his brow.
It used to strike a great fear in me when I was a boy, staring up at the powerful man who towered over me with furrowed brows and tight lips. Lee was an absolute, and I found out swiftly what happened when I defied him. My rebellion was met with a quick, reverberating clang that bloomed welts on my cheek. I’d stand before him, stuttering between shallow breaths, cowering under him pathetically like a beaten animal.
Lips quivered, in huffling gasps and choked words I swore against the actions against me. Every strike against my stutters was fuel to a blistering flame that cracked like fireworks in late July nights. I swore one day, I would show him the pain he showed me. That we would stand against each other, man to man. Fist to cuffs, welts to bruises. I’d stand over him, victorious, speaking clearly, without a trace of fear in my voice.
But, unfortunately, as time passed, that strength I feared in him dissolved. He had gone from standing over me to sitting beside me. And I stood alone, my head tipped down to witness a frail, weakened man.
I was taller, bigger, stronger. My sleeves were rolled to my elbows and I knew, without a shred of doubt, I was ready. I was ready to show him what it meant to be small, what he deserved for ruining the one good thing I had going for me.
He sat where he always did, in an old green lawn chair with a bottle of soda pop in his right hand.
I sat beside him in a small wicker chair, the old thing groaning under my weight, grating my frayed nerves. My hands clenched, and relaxed, vengeance boiling under my skin, but I found myself unable to speak. His presence demanded memories I did not want to recall, and as I sat there, beside him, I felt like an angry, stuttering little boy. I could almost see the shadow of his hands, feel the ache of bruises long gone.
Silence, long and treacherous filled the lack of greeting. I swallowed, rehashing the words bouncing in my head, testing them mutely on my lips. I tried once, twice, finding my speech applicably fluid.
“She’s gone.” I blurted out, clear and concise.
He hummed, his gaze flicking over to me momentarily, before resting on the setting sun.
“Yeah?” He rasped,” I’m sorry to hear that.”
Lee didn’t drink leisurely. He was a man born from a time long forgotten, with dirt caked under his fingernails and the pungent smell of cigarette smoke sticking to his clothes. He was born in a time when he was pulled by his hair, dragged, and tossed in the dirt for taking more than he was told. Lee drank with selfish mouthfuls, tipping the bottle past dried lips and letting gravity do the rest, exempt from punishment. It poured, poured, and poured until his old lungs deemed it time to pull for air. With a wet smack of his lips and the drink resting back in his bony hand, he breathed, sated.
It was disgusting, sickening even, but I bit back unrecited words. I had a speech, a fluid, precise set of words that I reserved for a man as cruel as himself.
“Yeah…sure you’re real happy about that.” I muttered, “I know how much you love being right.”
Muttering was for cowards, but I was able to console myself from frustration. I had at least spoken clearly, albeit not loudly. What mattered was that my voice was clear, resolved from stammers and choked words.
Another pause, he always took so long to respond to things. This old man thought through every word, every possibility. Maybe he was rolling each crease of his sleeve, buttoning the cuffs on his wrists.
“And what makes you say that?” He chided, swirling the glass lazily in his hand.
I try the words on my tongue, parting my lips,
‘“Because you told me it would happen, and it did.” I retorted,” You told me she’d leave…and she’s gone.”
If it were his fault, it would make this easier to digest. Easier to process that Charlene was gone, leaving a cold pang in my hands. She fit so perfectly against my hands, soft and pliant. She was home, she was my safety. My constant source of endless forgiveness, with eyes that showed love and understanding I surely didn’t deserve.
“Probably hiding at her mama’s house.” He drawled out with an exasperated sigh.
“Probably.” I returned.
He didn’t say anything at first, time always seemed to drag around the man. It weakened my resolve, caused my lips to quiver, and my lungs to close in on themselves. I was a man on borrowed time, and I sat there, my knee hopping restlessly against the floorboards as I waited.
“You’re too much like your old man, ya see…” Lee said with a low chortle.
“Don’t…” I start, taking a deep breath, forcing my lips to still,” Don’t say that, I’m nothing like you.”
“Oh, but you are…” He set the glass down on the tiled porch with a small clink,” I warned you, Arthur, but you’re just like the rest of us… always too damn angry. I see it in your eyes, I know you hate seein’ me. Hate comin’ here and wasting time on me…wait in’ for me to die, I reckon…waiting for that good ole’ inheritance.” He muttered,” You ever gon call me pa again? Or you too grown..too big? Too much of a man I bet…”
“You did this to me Lee, you made me this way, and I will never forgive you for that.” I said with clenched fists,” You and your discipline, you abused me, Lee. You beat me!”
“Oh for god’s sake! This again!” He said,” I didn’t do nothing you didn’t deserve back then…” He hissed,” You and this generation, always so soft. So whiny.” He spits out, the last word laced with venom,” If you met your grandpa, you’d think I was a saint. You should be thanking me for fixing that little stutter of yours…made you sound like a fuckin’ idiot. And by god, I raised a lot of things, but I didn’t raise no idiot.” Lee mumbles, shaking his head,” And besides, you ain’t a little boy no more are ya? How long are you gonna hide behind that excuse? I ain’t laid a hand on you since you were what, sixteen?”
Nineteen.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, and by the look on my face, he seemed to know that too.
Lee sighed deep, his chest rattling, “Look, Arthur, you’re a smart man, you and I both know what you’re too much of a coward to admit, it’s your damn fault. Blame me all you want, hell, beat me if it’ll make ya feel better. It won’t change what you did.”
A brief, lingering pause drew tight in the air, and I prayed he would just shut his damn mouth and let me speak, but god he just had to talk again.
“But, of course, if blaming me helps you sleep at night, be my guest.” Lee mumbled, his voice aggravatingly flippant,” Is this how sweet ole’ Charleene felt? Attacked? Hurt? You’re sure hurting me real bad Arthur. Did she cry? Did you make that innocent girl cry? Would you stop being mean to dear ole’ dad if I shed a little tear?” He mocked, a cruel smile gracing his cracked lips.
Enough was enough, I decided. I stood up with a creak of the chair, swiveling on my heels to stand over him. I towered over him, looming like a dark promise. My sleeves were rolled to my elbows, and my fists clench tight, white branding my knuckles,
“You listen real well, Lee! I ain’t no boy no more! You’re a monster! A bastard of a monster! And I’ll show you…I-I’ll show you what you deserve you s-sick-!”
“Sit down boy!” He roars, slamming a frail fist down on the arm of his chair.
In a fraction of a moment, I was young again. Young and fearful, beat to command. That thwack of his fist, that bouncing echo was a threat I felt he would fulfil in an instant. I sat down before I could stop myself, my heart thundering in my chest. My hands grasped my knees, and my head felt heavy, begging to tip and stare at the floor in shame.
A dog.
I felt like a dog, cowering under the heel of its master. I never hated myself more, never detested the strength my father carried more than I did in that flicker of a moment.
He tisked, his gaze distant towards the setting sun,” Looks like I was wrong, huh? Thought I did one thing right with you, but you’re still stuttering.” Lee mumbles, shaking his head,” Your grandpa would be ashamed of me.”
I didn’t say anything to that, not after I found myself undeniably wrong, once more.
“Listen here Arthur, and you listen real well.” He told me, filling the silence between us.
“You’re rotting Arthur, inside and out. You can try and make yourself look real nice on the outside, but once someone gets a little close to ya…they’ll smell it.” Lee starts, swirling the glass with languid swings of his wrist, “They’ll smell the rot in your bones, they’ll see the green to your skin…and they’ll do the same thing Charleene did, they’ll run from ya.”
My gut twisted, and my lungs drew tight like a wire. I forced air past my lungs, pushed myself to open my damn mouth, and speak, “W-What do I do?” I spoke, my voice a forced croak.
He answered coldly, his voice dripping with condescension, “Do I look like I know boy? You think I’d be sitting here, drinking soda out on my porch with you if I knew how to fix it? I couldn’t even fix your stutterin’ mouth…much less…all’a this.” He said.
Silence stepped between us like a breeze of wind, and this time, I finally managed to speak.
“I hate you, Dad.”
He laughed.
“Yeah, welcome to the party.”
He sounded tired.
“I’m nothing like you.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late to talk like that, don’t ya think?”
I left, and soon, Lee would too. He’d hobble with a hunch to his shoulders, lay his sore bones on a thin, creaky mattress. Lee McKroy would sleep with sleeves rolled to his elbows, aching knuckles, and clammy fists clenched tight, nails cutting into his palms. He’d sit alone, just like every night, waiting to die.
I walked home with my hands drawn to my sides, mumbling under my breath, cursing my father between grinding teeth. I wished and hoped that his mind finally started to wither, that his words were nothing more than a drabbling projection, a flippant speech he’d forget by morning light.
That he was wrong.
That the stinging in my itching palm was wrong. That Charlene would be back in my arms, and she’d accept my stuttering apologies.
Lee was wrong, she’d be home, waiting for me.
She had to be waiting for me.
But when I entered an empty home, a remnant of what once was, I knew again, I was wrong. I sat alone in a worn-out armchair, swirling a can in my hand. The TV was on, something was playing with voices, bouncing in a thick silence that felt like a dream.
I was wrong and Lee, infuriatingly, was right.
Something in me, deep and residing, told me that she won’t come back tonight, or the next, or even the one after that.
That bastard had to be right about everything, didn’t he?
I thought I was strong.
But as if a tale told as old as time, all he had to do was swing a fist, and as if I were a broken hound, I cowered away. My maw snapped shut, and against every plan I had I let him speak over me. My strength in that flicker of an instant, a tumultuous sea that swam in the very depths of self, evaporated in the raw sun of his contempt.
I breathed in and exhaled a wavering noise that rattled deep within my chest. Faster, involuntary almost, I found my heart growing restless in its cage. My hands clenched tight, sending a jolt of tremors through my skin that blushed a feverish red.
I told him I hated him, which was a gross understatement to the true depths of emotion I carry.
The English language, despite all of its complexities, does not have the right word to describe the heavy weight saddled in my heart. Hate, doesn’t even begin to grasp the feeling I have for him. Hate was too simple, too merciful for the man who created me. Abhor felt odd to roll off the tongue, detest was too close to dislike, and loathe, although slightly more impactful, simply wasn’t enough. These were words that I could speak all within a single utterance of breath. These were words that felt too small, too simple to capture the true weight of emotion. My feelings towards him are thoughts turn physical, an amalgamation of constant truths that are beyond a single word. It wasn’t a word, it was a lifetime.
I feel for Lee the gnashing of teeth, the creaking floorboards of chasing steps behind you. The racing heart of a little boy hiding under his bed, chewing the tips of his fingernails. I feel for Lee the countless nights a boy spent hunched on his knees, begging something to kill him before he pulled his truck into the parking lot. I feel for Lee the cold hard-wood chair, practicing my sentences while he sat across from me, waiting for a mistake with a darkness to his eyes. I feel for him an endless wail that seems to reverberate through the very core of what I am, begging for a father who didn’t hate me so. I feel for my father the memory of the day I looked up at him and instead of shaking in cowardice, closing my eyes and begging for mercy, I stared into the empty depths of his eyes, and hoped I could get strong enough to kill him.
I told him I’d kill him, through stuttering words and hiccuped sobs. I told him I felt so much for him I hoped he’d die and go to hell where he belonged.
I feel, and feel, and feel.
And I feel so much that I fear that’s all I am now..
I feel so much I wonder if it’s all I ever will be, a mass of feelings and circumstances carved from a time ago that seems so distant, yet ever so near, breathing down my neck in every passing moment. His fists still swing against me in every passing brush of another, every taunt and tease. I can’t seem to exist without his affluence, and for that, I could never forgive him.
Not that he’d ever apologize.
Something burns inside of me, a cusp of a feeling that could only be murderous.
Is there a word for this? This feeling of past, present, and future? Is there a word that can capture this agony that rips through me? Is it a sentence or two?
I can’t say I’m sure.
I would never say it out loud, never let him hear it. Never say what we both knew, because something about letting it slip out of me would seal the destitution that I found myself walking towards. The nail to the coffin, the disappointing finality to the path I swore to never follow.
There was a sickness in me, a rot that I cannot escape. I would never say it aloud, because that could only mean that he would finally win over me, but a strange and traitorous thought gave way to my once unshakeable resolve. A whisper, a proposition of sorts. A temporary solace to the battle that warred against me.
In the sanction of my home, I dared to mouth the words I would never truly admit.
And then, only then, a finality washed over me, like the last breath of a dying man. A trigger pulled against a dying animal, a booming silence at the end of church choirs that left nothing but the echo of a dissipating sound–
A paradox of wrath and peace seemed to be at odds inside of me.
Guilt and revulsion.
Acceptance and denial.
Rage and sorrow.
How utterly foolish to think that an admittance, even with no sound at all, somehow makes it less than what it was.
There was no clang of a fist to my cheek.
Or a bruise to tentatively graze my fingertips against.
There was me, solitary, resounding me.
And somehow the pain felt deeper than any fist raised against me.
Whispers In Ink 